Never Too Much
by wetrustno1
Summary: CABIN PRESSURE SICK!FIC Martin is seriously ill and alone for the weekend, and is afraid to call anyone for help. In which Martin is sick, Carolyn is motherly, and family proves to be much more than the people we are raised with.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! Decided to take a stab at a Cabin Pressure Fic, if only because I need to stop moping over my Sherlockian feels for a bit and try to focus on my studies and such. Have been enjoying the new season of CP soooo much, and am absolutely smitten with Martin and his adorable awkward-well-meaning-ness. Brilliant. Yet, as per my usual style, I will express my love through severe angst and suffering on Martin's behalf, all in the name of personal amusement. But never fear- all will end well. I could never not have Martin be saved in the end. **

**All characters/plot references go to John Finnemore, and of course the brilliance of the characters themselves is credited to their respective actors. I own nothing, do not sue me. Reviews always appreciated.**

***Note: the story will be broken into three-parts, with each section consisting of three "scenes" as it were. Thus the numbering. Carry on! **

I:

The van door slams with a clunk. There's the sound of something breaking- like a piece of door handle has fallen off onto the pavement, but right now Martin is entirely too exhausted and cold to care. He trudges up the steps to the house, fumbling with his keys with numb hands that have turned a rather disturbing shade of white in the February cold. A thin sheet of rain is falling on the city, leaving everything in a seemingly permanent state of grey. Everything is damp and depressing looking, and the slight headache gnawing at Martin's temples is doing nothing to help matters. He swallows and discovers that his throat hurts too.

Trust him to catch cold just from a little rain.

The prospect of illness makes everything seem infinitely worse, but as Martin reads the square of paper tacked to the door, he realizes that illness is just the tip of his iceberg of misery.

_Heater broken- will be fixed by Monday._

Martin's heart sinks. Perfect, just perfect. Bracing himself for the cold, empty, dark building that is going to consume him for the weekend, Martin unlocks the door and stumbles inside, happy to be anywhere slightly warmer than the frigid outdoors. The house is downright freezing, but Martin ignores it and simply moves upstairs to his room. He toes off his shoes and manages to collapse onto the bed in a mostly-lying-down position, yanking the blankets around him. The blood rushes to his head and everything feels fuzzy and thick and sort of stuffy. The exertion of the week sinks in, and Martin crumples under the duvet, groaning.

Five flights, six deliveries, and it's not even Friday yet. Carolyn has neglected to pay him (again), and he's two months behind on rent as it is, not to mention the nearly empty cupboard and thread-bare closet that sorely need to be addressed. The throbbing in his head cranks up a bit, and he sits up to try and relive some of the pressure. He's starting to really not feel very well, but there's nothing he can do about it here, and there's no extra money to run to the store. Martin shivers, and briefly imagines the list of things he could really use. A hot bath and some soup sound extremely tempting, not to mention the tylenol his body needs desperately. Yet logic informs him that this is all impossible, simply because he can't afford luxuries like solid foods or medication, and he's just going to have to wait it out. As usual.

Exhaustion suddenly hits like a freight train, and Martin curls up The heat won't be back on for another three and a half days, so he might as well make do with body-heat for warmth. The clock has barley struck 4:30, but Martin falls asleep without another thought.

II:

He wakes up about 11:00pm to the unpleasant sense of being extremely nauseous and sweaty. The sweaty aspect is coupled with a feverish ache that has consumed his whole body with a merciless intensity, but the chill from the fever temporarily overwhelms the need to puke. Martin shrinks into a tighter ball, breathing slowly through his mouth to try to ward off the nausea. In... out... He swallows tightly, but is eventually able to breathe a sigh of relief as his stomach settles. The achiness sets back in, but down to a dull throbbing around his temples that seems more manageable. Glancing over at the clock, Martin realizes he's been asleep for roughly six and half hours, and yet it's not even midnight. Odd. His room has most definitely gotten colder in that time (or maybe that's just the fever) but he decides that tea is probably a good idea. Something warm to defrost his body. He's pretty sure that there's at least one tea bag in the kitchen, if only he can find the willpower to actually get up.

Slowly, he climbs out of bed, limbs stiff and weak in the cold air. Martin drags the comforter with him downstairs, flicking on the light as he goes. He coughs in the stairwell- deep and barking and definitely a bit not good for someone stuck in a building that will probably drop below freezing in the next few hours- and tugs the lukewarm fabric tighter around himself. He must look pathetic. The film of sweat covering his body has essentially glued his clothing to his skin, and he finds that shivering is almost impossible to stop. Trembling as his feet hit the icy kitchen floor, Martin prods open the pantry and glances around. There is mercifully a single tea bag stowed on the top shelf, and Martin smiles vaguely at it and he deposits it into an empty mug. Filling up the kettle, he settles it onto the stove and turns the dial on the gas stove.

Nothing.

The stove remains stoic and silent, and Martin's stomach seems to churn in despair. No heat, no gas. No gas, no stove, which means that he will literally have no food for the next three days unless he goes out (with money he really doesn't have) and buys something warm. The tears are childish, he knows they are, but somehow the realization that he can't even have something as simple as tea, when he feels so awful and so cold and so alone- makes him want to scream. Turning away from the lifeless stove, he settles for a glass of tap water and a piece of bread and makes his way back upstairs. The coughing returns on the eighth step, and he clutches the wall in order to keep himself upright. Some of the water spills, and he gasps as it seeps into his t-shirt, sending goosebumps over every inch of inch body. Part of him wants to just curl up on the stairs and go back to sleep. Never in his life has he been so tired, and really it's probably warmer down here than it will be up in his attic anyway and he just hurts all over... Clumsily he drops down onto the carpeted step and nestles into his blanket. His body burns and his shirt is still unpleasantly damp with sweat and water, but he's really too exhausted to care. Choking back more tears, Martin curls into a ball and falls into a tenuous slumber.

III:

He doesn't remember much about being ill when he was younger.

Frankly he doesn't remember much about his childhood period.

There are bits and pieces of it, birthday parties and school assignments and petty arguments with his siblings, but really they all end the same way. Disappointment. Failure. Rejection. He remembers in the fourth grade when they learned about probability- about luck- and how he'd always wished that someday his chances could work out the way he wanted them to, for once.

They never really did.

Certainly, he had MJN, and Douglas and Carolyn and Arthur, and so he had partially gotten his dream of being a pilot, but that was really it. He'd never had a real girlfriend, never been a part of his family the way he wished he could be. He'd always been a little too awkward, a little too looked-over.

Insignificant.

Well he certainly was now- laying on the floor in an empty house with no where better to go and no one to call because there was no one _to_ call. His mother was out of town, Simon was on vacation, and Caitlyn was always too preoccupied with her own life. Her own family. Anyway, it's not as though he would bother any of them anyway- it would just reinforce the idea that he was a burden. He was this great weight on the family, the failure of a son who couldn't take care of himself so he had to go and bleed everyone else dry, take everything from everyone. He briefly thinks of calling Douglas or Carolyn, but his mouth goes dry at the thought of explaining himself over the phone. He's already the helpless child, the butt of their jokes, and he doesn't need to lower himself any further by begging for help. Besides, he's just an employee. A co-worker. No one special.

The lump in Martin's throat expands, but he blames it all on the fever. It's all just because he's sick- overly sentimental. It doesn't really matter, anyways. Any of it. His shallow breathing turns to coughing, so fierce that he sees stars when it's over, leaving him clinging to the hand rail, breathless. When he cries, it is silent, and the house remains soundless aside from Martin's raspy breathing.

**I feel seriously horrible about doing this to Martin, but I promise it will get better in the next chapter! Always love to hear feedback! I will work to update in the next few days. Thanks for reading. XOX Audrey**


	2. Chapter 2

I:

It takes a moment for Martin to remember why exactly he is asleep on the stairs, rather than his bed, but as soon as he does, he regrets it. His back hurts from where the ridges of the steps cut into his spine, and there are a few moments of stiff stretching before any further observations regarding his current state can be made.

Unfortunately, said progress is most unpleasant to note, and Matin feels the throes of illness cascade down on him in a rush.

He feels awful.

His chest hurts and his clothes are clammy with sweat and the pain in his stomach seems to be returning with an alarming intensity that is frankly starting to scare him a little. The house is still cold, though it doesn't seem to have gotten any cold_er, _which Martin takes as a good sign. Vaguely he remembers a space heater up in one of the closets. The thought of warmth is beyond heavenly, and slowly, he peels himself from the stairwell and shuffles upstairs. The heater is crammed behind a million boxes of junk, and his arms tremble as he drags it out into the open space of the living room. It's a bit dusty, and Martin silently prays that it is not broken.

If it is, he's not sure what will be left for him to do, and the thought of having to actually call up Douglas or Carolyn and plead for a caretaker is more than his ailing body can handle. He's not about to go around asking for help from anyone if he can avoid it, and provided this heater is adequately functioning, he should be fine until Monday, by which point he will be back on Gertie with food and warmth and company, and it will all be fine. He plugs the heater in and is pleased to discover that it works, and the relief of being warm temporarily takes his mind off how sick he still feels. The relief is short lived however, as a fit of dry coughing spills over into a chesty rasp that hurts his lungs.

The cough is overwhelming, and Martin digs his nails into his palms as the fit tears through him. He wheezes for air, tightening his grip on the comforter to try and take the edge off- make it hurt less. It doesn't do much to help. The coughing continues and the room spins. Everything is too warm all of a sudden, and the heater is no longer as inviting as it was a moment ago.

His stomach churns.

Common sense nudges him toward the bathroom, where Martin flicks on the light and locates a thermometer. He holds his breath as he waits for the reading, and foresees some serious flaws in his plans to stay here for the weekend as the tiny numbers flare up onto the screen at 39.4.

Shit.

Somehow seeing the temperature, the proof of the fever he has felt growing for days, makes his whole body feel a thousand times worse. He has been trying so hard to just fight through the ongoing fatigue and just get better- just power through it like a man, just prove that for _once in his life_ he can take care of himself- has failed. Well that doesn't mean he needs to be babied by anyone. He's going to be fine. Ignoring the slight lump in his throat, Martin drags the comforter and heater up to his room and closes the door. There's a half full glass of water next to the bed, and he drinks it slowly, feeling each drop numb the pain of his aching throat. He sets the glass down and crawls into bed, trying to convince himself that he's no longer cold and feverish, and that when he wakes up it will all be gone.

Just three more days, and it will all be fine.

II:

Sleep is useless.

His teeth chatter so hard they are in danger of breaking his jaw, and although its difficult to tell when his body is so hot and cold at once, Martin is reasonably sure that the sheets are soaked in sweat. The coughing returns every now and again, and he's starting to worry that this is more serious that just a cold.

He doesn't ever remember feeling this dreadful in his life. Rest assured there have been plenty of times he has felt awful, but this is simply incomparable. He wants to cry but he knows that will just make him cough again and hurt even more, so he bites his lip and tries to think of all the good things that Monday will bring.

They're flying to Mexico.

Warm. Sun. Light.

Douglas will tell terrible jokes and Carolyn will make wry quips in reply, and Arthur will do something ridiculously stupid- but all with good intentions- and everything will be back to normal. His little family.

He wants to smile, but he doesn't have the energy.

He feels like he might crumble into a thousand pieces.

The heater is no longer providing any noticeable warmth (but maybe he just doesn't feel it because of the fever) and his toes feel frozen.

Is it possible to die of hypothermia inside an insulated building? Seems unlikely, but with his luck, who knows. His fingertips are freezing but his torso is burning up, and, oh god when was the last time he ate anything? Yesterday, maybe? The days blur together into a shapeless mass, and suddenly the idea of food is too much for his stomach to take. Martin manages to roll toward the side of the bed in time to gag, but nothing comes up, because there is nothing inside him. He chokes on bile and frigid air, and that's enough to trigger the coughing to return in full force. Every part of him is on fire, and he just wants to die, die and black out and not be such a terrible burden on everyone else and just be left alone and let it all be peaceful.

He trembles under the blankets for quite some time, chest heaving in exertion and suppressed sobs that must not come out.

Don't be weak.

Don't cry.

Martin bites his lip again, curls up tighter and imagines his MJN family. Carolyn would be devastated if her business failed because of her irresponsible pilot who got himself sick and died while off duty, and Martin can't let that happen- can't disappoint her like that. Or Douglas. Or Arthur. They need him, and even if he's not really all that much, he can't fail them. He won't.

Even more than that he just needs someone to make all the pain go away, make his head stop pounding and tell him it's going to be okay, because right now he's afraid that nothing will ever get a chance to if he doesn't call someone soon.

His mobile is clumsily collected off the bedside table, and Martin simply presses speed dial #1 and hopes that she answers.

ring...ring...ring...ring...ring... "Hello?"

"Carolyn." The one word is all he can manage to spit out, but she seems to know it's him without asking.

"Oh Martin it's you." She sounds irritated and tired, and his stomach sinks. She's angry he bothered her.. oh god he didn't even think about the time and it must be close to, two, three? The clock is blurry and he's not sure what to say, because she just sounds so unhappy to hear his voice and he doesn't know how to make her understand. "Why on earth are you calling at 2:45 in the morning?"

He thinks about it for a moment, trying to remember... why was he calling? The silence on the line strings on for what feels like an eternity, and Carolyn's patience is wearing thin. "Martin?" She snaps, even over the phone, and Martin can see her exasperation as clearly as if she were in the room.

"I..." Everything is so cold and so prickly- like a thousand needles closing in around him, compacting him into an unidentifiable speck of nothingness... "I don't feel well... and.." He swallows and tastes tears, which he swipes away with the most strength he can muster. " ...the heat's off... " God he sound pathetic. He should just hang up, he knows he should, but his arm doesn't seem to be in agreement with this whole business of moving. He bites his lip and tastes salt. The tears feel good on his hot skin, and the phone is suddenly very heavy and hard to grasp, so he lets it settle into the blankets.

"Martin?"

It's all very distant, so far away, and all he can do it clutch the phone tight, and hope that she understands just how much he needs her to come rescue him.

"Martin!" Carolyn now sounds panicky, afraid, and she calls his name over and over again. "Martin are you there? Is anyone with you?" Mm he ought to answer... knows he should, but sleep sounds so nice, and warm... comforting... Carolyn says his name yet again, and this time it even _sounds_ comforting... motherly. He remembers her using the same voice after she'd thought they had left Arthur in one of the airports in Tokyo, how she'd given him a hug and made him promise never to do that to her again, did he understand? Martin smiles vaguely, and Carolyn coaxes him back into the present.

"Martin I'm on my way over right now. I'm going to be right there in just a tick, so you hang in there for me, alright?" His tongue struggles on a "yes, sir", but doesn't manage anything but some sort of strangled huff.

He sighs, frowning as the air whispers across his abused chest in ripples of pain. "Mmmhmm..." His eyes are too heavy to keep open any longer, and Martin drifts off into the abyss of unconsciousness.

**CLIFFHANGER! Because I know how much we all love those... Feedback appreciated! Apologize for the lateness of the update. XX **


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